


Twice

by heatgeneratingtechniques



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff without Plot, I guess I'm doing this again, M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), connor's pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 15:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15998078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatgeneratingtechniques/pseuds/heatgeneratingtechniques
Summary: Just a couple of times that Connor was the big spoon.





	Twice

**Author's Note:**

> Don't mind me, just cobbling together some well-worn fluff as I wait for Hurricane Florence to go away. I don't have the energy to work on anything longer, so this will have to do for now. Stay safe, y'all. ^_^

  
  


A month after Connor moves in, Hank has the worst night he's had in years.

He can sense it coming. Sees it in the downturn of his mood at work and the anxiety blooming in his gut. He’s not sure what sets it off, but he’s in a sour mood all day. When they get home, he goes straight to the liquor cabinet, oblivious to Sumo pattering around his feet.

It’s been a while since he’s felt this bad.

Connor asks him what’s wrong. He steps in too close and holds out his hand for Hank to hand him the bottle. Hank feels a blush flaring up that’s only partly from the alcohol. He knows Connor could easily overpower him — force the bottle from his hand and pin him down until he’s worn out from struggling — but he won’t. He respects  _ one _ boundary, at least.

“There’s a thing called personal space,” Hank grumbles, “and one of these days, I wish you’d learn what it was.”

“I know what personal space is,” Connor says patiently. “But you shouldn’t be drinking now.”

“Leave me alone.” Hank’s voice comes out harsher than he intends.

It’s not... it’s not  _ right _ that Connor should be here. So devoted to him like this, with his steadfastly patient expression. Some nights, Hank just wants to suffer alone. He wants to drink himself numb, until he stops thinking  _ what if, what if. _

Connor finally leaves him alone, but his expression is full of reproach.

Hank ends up sprawled on the couch, too dizzy to focus on the TV. By this point, Connor’s already taken Sumo for a walk and placed a glass of water on the coffee table. Hank tries to focus on it now, wonders if he can reach out and knock it over. He wonders how Connor might react.

There’s an ache in his head that’s been spreading through his body all evening. And quite suddenly, he’s angry. He’s so angry that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

_ What if... _

Connor’s sitting primly at the kitchen table, seemingly having figured out on his own that Hank wants some space. He looks up when Hank stirs from the couch.

“Do you need me to help you to the bathroom?” he asks. “Your blood alcohol content is point fifteen percent—”

“Don’t need nothin’.” Hank staggers, but manages to stay upright long enough to send the glass of water flying. He watches the water soak into the carpet with a small measure of satisfaction. He frowns as another thought crosses his mind. “My gun...”

Connor’s on his feet now. Hank can’t see his LED, but he’s sure it’s spinning yellow.

“I just want it.” Hank takes one step and almost falls over. “I just... I need it.”

Connor’s face is impassive as ever as he crosses the room. “You need to sit down, Lieutenant. “You’re not well.”

There’s a well-worn  _ fuck you _ on the tip of Hank’s tongue, but before he can speak, Connor’s arms are around him. Connor clumsily walks the two of them backwards towards the bedroom.

“You’ll feel better once you’ve had some sleep,” he says firmly.

And then Hank realizes that he’s crying. Ugly crying. Heaving sobs that shake his whole body. The taste of alcohol still coating his tongue, anger and guilt still flooding his mind. An overwhelming sense of self-loathing, clinging to him like filth.

Connor puts him to bed. He’s quiet, but his movements are gentle, and there’s something about the personal attention that cuts through the pain. Gives Hank something else to think about.

Gradually, his tears stop.

The sheets beneath him are soft and cool and — to his surprise — smell a lot nicer than they did this morning.

Even more surprising is the weight of Connor’s arm around him. He’s embracing Hank from behind, his nose pressed to Hank’s shoulder.

“I think I will stay here tonight,” Connor says. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

He’d always made a point of asking permission before doing anything before, but there was no question in his voice. And Hank’s too drunk to fight anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into the pillow. “’m really sorry.”

The next thing he remembers is waking up the next morning, his head throbbing painfully. The second thing is that Connor’s arms are still around him.




On the way home from work a few weeks later, Connor asks if it might help Hank to try therapy.

Hank lashes out at first. He doesn’t need therapy. He’s holding himself together just fine.

“Is getting drunk your idea of holding yourself together?” Connor asks. When Hank doesn’t reply, he adds, “There are healthier coping mechanisms that you can learn. Ones that won’t cause adverse effects.”

Hank only shrugs, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

“I just...” Connor falters, and that, more than anything else, catches Hank’s attention. He chances a sidelong glance. Connor’s frowning, his gaze on the dashboard.

“I just want you to be happy.”

Hank’s throat tightens. “Might be a little late for that.” He tries to make his voice sound lighthearted, but there’s a tremble there that Connor probably notices.

“I don’t think it is, Lieutenant,” Connor says. He reaches out and pats Hank’s shoulder twice.

“What are you doing?”

“Offering physical reassurance.”

Hank scoffs. “You’re doing it wrong.”

Connor withdraws his hand, rests it on his own knee. “I’m sorry. There’s still a lot I have to learn.”

“That makes two of us,” Hank mutters.

“But I still don’t think it’s too late for you,” Connor says, and there’s an earnest tone to his voice that makes Hank’s heart hurt. “You don’t lose the capacity for happiness with age. It may become more difficult, but it’s still possible.”

Hank knows Connor’s right. Of  _ course, _ he’s right. And Hank’s still a tad bit embarrassed about his drunken breakdown a few weeks ago. So, reluctantly, he agrees to try it.

And, after a month of sessions, he has to admit that he feels better. Lighter. As if the guilt and self-hatred that’s latched onto him is finally starting to recede. It’s still there, of course, ready to drag him down on the bad days, but he feels better. He starts cleaning up around the house, stops complaining when Connor buys him vegetables and insists on cooking.

Connor doesn’t say much, but one day, while Hank’s doing the dishes and humming old tunes to himself, he catches Connor watching him.

“What?” he says, a self-conscious flush spreading over his face. “You never heard an old man sing before?”

“I’ve heard many people sing.” Connor shrugs. It’s one of the gestures he’s picked up since going deviant, one of the things that Hank likes even if he’d never admit it. “I just like it more when you do.”

Connor doesn’t smile — he rarely does — but there’s a softness in his eyes. A fondness. It’s a bit flustering, being on the receiving end of that sort of attention. Hank tries to cover it with grumbling, making a big show of finishing the dishes  _ without _ humming, before he goes to the couch and turns on the TV.

He has a nightmare that night.

It’s a recurring one he’s occasionally had, ever since the accident. He’s in the car with Cole, he sees the oncoming headlights, he tries to scream and swerve away, but it’s too late.

Brakes shrieking above the low drone of the truck’s horn. The violent force of impact, seat belt digging into his chest. Cole’s high-pitched scream.

He wakes up shouting, body drenched in sweat.

“Lieutenant?”

His door bursts open within seconds. Connor’s there, wearing an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants of Hank’s. It’s still odd to see him without his Cyberlife suit, Hank thinks, even as he tries to catch his breath.

“Hank?” For a split second, Connor looks afraid.

“Bad dream.” Hank slowly sits up, resting his elbows on his knees. He lowers his head to his hands, trying to get the awful sound of Cole’s scream out of his head.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No.” Hank shakes his head. He takes a deep breath, raises his head to give Connor a weak smile. “No.”

Connor nods. “Would you like me to stay with you, then? Sometimes it can help to receive some form of reassurance after a nightmare.”

_ No _ , Hank almost says, quickly followed by,  _ Why the hell not. _ Connor’s always there, always looking out for him. He’s repeatedly told Hank that he  _ wants  _ to do this, that he’s not simply following the dictates of his programming. He  _ wants _ to help Hank, so why not let him.

So Hank pats the space on the bed next to him. When Connor doesn’t move, he says, “Come sit with me.”

They sit in silence for a while. It must be a strange sight, Hank thinks. Him with an android in his bedroom. It takes him a moment to realize that he doesn’t mind, though. He likes having Connor near him, and he doesn’t care how that might look to anyone else.

“Life is such a mess,” he mutters. “Such a mess, Connor.”

“You had a dream about Cole?”

The name makes Hank’s breath catch in his throat, makes him clench his jaw against the memories. He doesn’t need to say anything, knowing that Connor’s already noted the sudden change, already analyzed and filed it away as the answer.

Connor puts a hand on his knee.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says.

For once, Hank doesn’t pull away or try to diffuse the situation with anger. He simply nods.

“Thanks.”

“I will...” There it was again. That uncharacteristic falter in Connor’s voice. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“Wait.”

Connor freezes in place. Perfectly still.

“Do you think you might... might stay here tonight? In my room? I-I know you don’t need to sleep,” Hank quickly adds when Connor tries to speak. “I could just... use the company.”

“Yes.” The word bursts from Connor’s mouth before Hank’s even finished. He gets beneath the covers in a hasty flurry, his eyes wide in the darkness.

His LED is spinning yellow, but Hank doesn’t have the energy to ask why.

“Don’t steal all the covers,” he mutters.

“I won’t.” Connor’s fingers tighten in the sheets. “I won’t.”

It’s comforting to have someone else in bed, even if that someone doesn’t sleep. Hank shifts around, trying to get comfortable.

“Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“Is it...” A pause. “Is it alright if I... would you mind if I held you?”

Hank rolls over. Connor’s still sitting up, still yellow-ringing.

“What’s wrong, Connor?”

“Nothing is wrong. I just want to help you feel better.”

So Hank finds himself in an android’s embrace for the second time in as many months. Except he’s sober this time. Connor’s skin is smooth against his, firm and reassuring. Different from what Hank’s used to, but he doesn’t mind.

Connor exhales cool, artificial breath against the back of his neck.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr!](http://lunar-winterlude.tumblr.com)


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